Mixing Metaphors- er, Tales

It was still early when I woke up, but it’s hard to sleep with a donkey braying in your ear. George said it was time to get up, and believe me, I didn’t have it in me to argue with him. After a quick breakfast, I packed all the gear on George’s back. Then he nodded to some bushes on the other side of the clearing. “You’ll want the mining stuff over there, too.”’

 

I rummaged out the package of mining gear and attached that to his back, as well. Finally, I poured water in the fire pit and started towards the beach.

 

 “Where are you going?” asked the donkey.

 

“I’m going back over to the river, so we can get over to the trail and head for Owl Creek,” I answered. “Why?”

 

He snorted. “Well, unless you really want to go for a swim, and it’s a little chilly for that this morning, I suggest you follow me.” He started to walk to the other end of the little island.

 

I shrugged and followed him. At the far end of the island, there was a wide, shallow ford going over to the far shore. It took only a few minutes to wade across here. “That was much easier,” I said.

 

“Yup. Not everything’s got to be hard. Just some things.” And he walked off down the trail, leaving me to my socks and hiking boots.

 

It didn’t take long for our little trail to wander back up hill. “We should meet the main road in about an hour,” George told me, as we puffed up a steep section of the trail. “There should be other people on the road, and it won’t be quite so lonely for you.”

 

“I don’t mind,” I told him. “You’re good company, too.” Then I reached over into my pack and pulled out my little wooden flute. I amused myself for the next quarter hour by trying to work out a tune the minstrel had played over at the Taverna di Muse a few nights ago. The donkey kindly kept his thoughts on that to himself. I thought that was fair, after the way he woke me up.

 

I was wrapped up in trying to work out a fingering when I heard George groan, “Oh, no.”

 

I looked up to see a huge dirt slide going across the path. It seemed to go on for quite a ways, but it didn’t look impassible; a little difficult, maybe, but not impossible to get across.

I put away my flute and prepared to step onto the slide. “Don’t.” said George.

 

“It doesn’t look that bad,” I said. “I think we can get across.”

 

“Trust me. Don’t.” he repeated.

 

Well, I didn’t listen. I stepped onto the scree, and all of a sudden, I was on a ride downhill. It was like slipping down hill on ice. The stuff just flowed and I went with it. I managed to stay on my feet for a little bit, but soon I landed on my posterior in the dirt avalanche.

 I finally stopped about 50 feet downhill, and looked up. I saw George peering over the side of the road at me. “You okay?” he called down.

 

“Just ducky!” I growled as I picked gravel out of my socks. “Just peachy!”

 

“I don’t like to say I told you so…” began my sarcastic guide.

 

 “Then don’t.” I replied, climbing to my feet and hiking back up the steep hillside. By the time I made it to the top, I was covered with briar scratches in addition to the dust and dirt that I had acquired on my impromptu ride down the hill.

 

Puffing, I reached for the canteen, and then said, “So what do we do now?”

 

“Simple,” the donkey said, “We go back and take the long way around.”

 

“Go back?!” I cried, “But we’re so close!”

 

“Yes, but we can’t get there this way. Sometimes you have to back up and regroup, find a new way to do things.” George replied placidly. “I’m a donkey. They only thing I’ m ever in a hurry for is my dinner. We’ll get there, a little later rather than sooner, but that happens sometimes. At least we have another route we can take.” While he was talking, he turned around and was walking back down the way we had just come. I hurried behind him.

 

He continued, “It won’t add too much onto the trip. We’ll just get there tomorrow instead of today. You can spend the extra time getting ready for the mine. It’s not a bad idea, anyway, you know. That mining can be a little bit strenuous.”

 

He was quite for a little bit. I was still quietly sulking. He spoke again. “You tend to be a little bit impatient, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, and?”

 

“Well, being a little more patient is usually a good thing. Means you take that one last look at something, make sure it’s right. You don’t go off in a rush and leave things behind that you might need,” here he glanced over at me, “or leave out some detail in a story that you really need to make it work. That little extra time can mean a big difference sometimes.”

 

I had to admit he was right. I did need to be more patient. Sometimes, though, waiting was terribly difficult. We walked along in silence for about half an hour, and came to a branch off the path that I had missed seeing earlier.

 

“This will take us to the road, too, just farther away from Owl Creek. We’ll end up spending more time on the road, that’s all.”

 

By the time we had gone on for another hour, I had completely recovered my good humor. I was reading more about the Mines, and trying to do some more preparatory work before actually getting to them.

George told me that we were finally getting near the main road, when we both heard rustling in the bushes by the road.

 

“Is someone there?”  I called.

 

“I should hope so!” came a voice way down low in the bushes. “I am definitely Someone!” A small tabby cat came waltzing out onto the path. “I am Someone, and I am going to Owl Creek to seek my fortune!”

 

“Are you, then?” said the donkey.

 

“Yes! I think they must be in need of good mousers there, and I am the best. My littermates and I cleaned out the barn where we were born and had to leave home to make our own ways in the world.” He sat and washed his shirt front. “So, I am on the way to Owl Creek. Are you perchance going that direction? And would you care for another traveling companion?” He stood up, wound his way through my legs and bumped his head against me.

 

The donkey answered first. “Of course. The more the merrier. Jump on.” And of course the cat did. He curled up on top of the packs and started purring right away.

 

A few more turns down the path, there was a dog, lying in the middle of  the way, looking dejected.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” asked George the donkey.

 

“I have no home,” he replied. “There were too many puppies in my litter for the farmer to feed, so I left home. But I’m a dog, and I like having a home and hearth to come back to each day. I was thinking I would go the Owl Creek, because  there are more people there, but I’m not sure which way to go.” He sighted sadly.

 

“Well,” I said, “If my companions agree, you can join us. We’re going that way.”

 

The cat said, “As long as you don’t chase cats, I don’t mind.”

 

The donkey said, “As long as you don’t nip at my heels, I don’t mind.”

 

So the dog joined us.

 

This was beginning to feel a little familiar. All we needed now was a rooster.

 

Sure enough, he was around the next bend.

 

We saw the jaunty young rooster scratching at the dirt of the path, looking for bugs. He heard us behind him and looked up. “Oh! Hello! Am I in the way? So sorry. I was looking for bugs. A bit hungry, you know. Too many young roosters on my farm, not enough grain.”

 

“And I suppose you have set out to find a new home, possibly in Owl Creek, where there aren’t as many other roosters and you will have plenty to eat?” I asked.

 

“Why, yes! How did you know?” he replied.

 

“Just a lucky guess.” I said. “At least the name of the town isn’t
Bremen.”

 

That earned me some funny looks from all of them.

 

“Anyway, we are going that way if you wish to join us. By the way, none of you have any musical tendencies, do you?” Again they looked at me very strangely, but they all said no. The rooster jumped up on the pack behind the cat, and off we went.

 

Soon we came to the main road, and while there were a few more travelers, there weren’t a lot of them. Twice as many of them were coming towards too, either, which seemed a little odd., The donkey was the first to notice this. “Unless I miss my guess, there is something going on here,” he said.

 

We weren’t much farther on when we found out what.

 

There was a little bridge across a small stream- not Owl Creek, but a tributary. People were stopping at the bridge and talking to a very ugly old man. They sounded very unhappy- angry, in fact- but after a few minutes, they crossed the bridge. There were a large number of people camped on the far side, too. The old man, however, looked positively gleeful.

 

When we came up to the bridge, he hurried over to us, crying, “Pay the toll! Pay the toll!” The old man was not only very ugly, he had enormous sharp teeth and very long, sharp, dirty fingernails. His arm muscles bulged beneath his shirt.

 

George the donkey was quite offended. “This is not now and never has been a toll road!” he exclaimed. “Le Enchanteur would not have something like this on the road to Owl Creek!”

“What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt me!” the man sneered. “Two gold pieces each for you and the person. The livestock I’ll let pass- this time.”

 

“Well, we don’t have the gold pieces,” I retorted.

 

“Then you can’t pass,” he stated with finality.

 

We backed up, out of hearing distance. “Why don’t we just go around?” I asked. “The stream isn’t that wide.”

 

“It would be better to get this fellow away from the bridge once and for all,” said the donkey. “I have a plan.”

 

We settled down like we were going to camp, and waited for darkness.

 

When night time came the ugly old man curled up with blankets in the middle of the bridge so that no one could get by without paying his toll, even at night. When he seemed to be asleep, we put our plan into action.

 

First the rooster walked across the bridge. Tick, tick, tick went his claws on the wood.

 

“Who’s crossing my bridge?” said the man.

 

The rooster clucked under his breath.

 

“Oh, just the rooster,” said the old man, and he went back to sleep.

 

Next, the cat walked across. Pad, pad, pad, went his paws on the wood.

 

“Who’s crossing my bridge?” said the man.

 

The cat meowed.

 

“Oh, just the cat,” said the old man, and he went back to sleep.

 

Then the dog walked across the bridge. Ticker-tacker, ticker-tacker, ticker-tacker went his claws on the bridge.

 

“Who’s walking on my bridge?” said the man.

 

The dog woofed.

 

“Oh, just the dog,” said the old man, and he went back to sleep.

 

Now that our companions were on the other side, the donkey and I got ready for our part.

 

We walked onto the bridge, one of us on each side. Clop, clop, clop went the donkey’s hooves on the bridge. Thump, thump, thump went my boots on the bridge. One of us was on one side, one on the other, blocking the bridge.

 

The old man sprang up immediately. “I told you,” he roared, “That you must pay a toll to CROSS MY BRIDGE!”

 

He was being so loud that he didn’t hear the dog, the rooster, and the cat run up behind him. The dog ran into the backs of his legs knocking him off balance, the cat ran through his legs, and I gave him a push, knocking him down. The rooster jumped on top of him, spurring him with his claws as he went. The man screamed with rage and leapt up again and turned, ready to run after the animals. When he turned around, the donkey whirled and gave a mighty kick with his back legs. The wicked old man flew through the air and landed with a splash in the stream down below.

 

All the people who had been camping and waiting for a chance to cross the bridge had been awakened by the noise, and came out see what was going on. When they saw the man fly through the air and splash into the creek, they cheered. Then they ran down to the water with ropes and tied him up before he could get away from them. His big sharp teeth and long sharp fingernails and bulging muscles weren’t so frightening when he was stunned and soaking wet.

 

We broke our camp and went a little farther down the road for the night, with our new traveling companions. Tomorrow we would see Owl Creek. I pulled out my mirror. Sure enough, it had changed again.

Posted by She Wolf

Me and My Donkey

I walked down the track, and through the meadow. The flowers were full of butterflies and I thought again about the garden spirit, the butterfly man. I wondered if he or his cousins came to dance in fields of flowers like this one. A honeybee buzzed past, and birds flew overhead. I stepped into the shade of the trees at the edge of the meadow and into the woods. The track here was covered with pine needles and smelled nice and spicy when I walked on it. It was quiet in here, and cool. I could hear the birds singing and little creatures scampering in the leafy canopy above me. When I looked up I could see patches of blue sky. I could feel myself slowing down, enjoying the walk and the place. I tried to do a Zen thing and just be in the moment. It is hard for me, because my mind is always thundering along at a million miles an hour, but I thought about each breath of spicy air, and the texture of the tree bark, and the sound of the breeze and the birds.

 

By the time I came out the other side of the wooded patch, I was feeling centered and relaxed.

However, it was getting later and the track was showing no signs of leading anywhere but “over the hills and far away”, or like Tolkien’s road, going ever on and on. Unfortunately, while a wonderful adventure, this did not address the fact that in my happy hurry to get going, I had not brought matches, or food, or water, or a bed roll, or any of those practical things that I now seemed to need.

 

“Oh, BOTHER!” I grumped, my centered and relaxed feeling evaporating like dew on a hot morning.

 

“What is your problem?” I heard a grumpy voice from the edge of the trees behind me.

 

I turned around. All I saw was a little brown donkey.

 

“Don’t you have any manners? I asked what your problem was,” came the voice again. There was no one there but the donkey.

 

“Excuse me?” I said politely.

 

“Oh, are you hard of hearing? I didn’t know,” said the voice again.

 

“No, I can hear just fine. I’m just trying to figure out where you are,” I replied.

 

The voice chuckled. “I’m standing right here in front of you. You’re staring right at me. You know, for someone who talks to butterfly men, you sure are set in your ways of thinking. Just because I’m a donkey, you decide I can’t possibly be the one talking to you. I can see you’ve got a lot to learn.”

“Oh…” was all I could say.

 

“Now come on over here and put your bag on my back. It’s getting late and we have a lot to do before it gets dark By the way, my name is George.”

 

“I’m She Wolf. Only, really, since the Wolf who runs here is far beyond anything I could be, I’m just an apprentice She Wolf.” I slung my bag on his back and tied it down with the straps there, and we set off down the track. “So, George, where are we going?” I asked.

 

“Well, in a little bit, on the other side of the river, we will join up with the road to Owl Creek. We’ll get there sometime tomorrow, I hope. There are some camping things up ahead, along with some other things you’ll need once we get to the mine.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard there was a mine to visit.”

 

“Yes, and you’ll need to know about it. There’s some information in that little leather case on the other side of my harness.”

 

I reached over and untied the straps holding the case on. As we walked, I read about the Alluvial Mines and mining. “Boy, there’s an awful lot of information here,” I said.

 

“Just take your time. Don’t try to absorb it all at once. Read it over again later, and try a few of the exercises later. That’s what everyone else does,” said my new four-footed mentor.

 

So I read it and thought about it and looked all around me for the rest of the way down the side of the very large hill.

 

At the bottom was the river. Right here it was fast and strong, not a good place to ford it at all. I said so to the donkey. “Maybe we should walk up and down a little ways, and find a better place to cross,” I said.

 

“Nope. You need to cross it here. Do you see that island?”

 

“Yes…” The island was in the middle of the river a little way downstream. It looked pleasant, with trees on it, and a sandy beach. The river around it looked a bit wild, though.

 

“Well, you need to get to that island. That is where the camping things and the other things you’ll need are cached.”

 

Oh. Well. I finally squeaked, “Over there?”

 

“Over there.” He confirmed.

 

“How am I supposed to get over there?” I asked.

 

“Well, the best way is just to get in the water and swim,” said the donkey. “It’s cold, but not that cold. Besides, after the walk you’ve had today, you could use a little bath.” He snickered.

 

“Smart ass,” I said, before I thought.

 

“Why thank you!” he preened, and snickered again.

 

When he saw that I was hesitating, he said, “Look, sometimes, you need to just have faith, jump in, and do something. I am telling you this is safe- well, sort of- and you just need to take that leap. I’ll follow along with your bag.”

 

I took my shoes and socks off, and my hat, and put them in my backpack on top of the mule, and waded into the water. It dropped off almost immediately, and I found myself up to my neck in ice-cold water, being swirled around wildly. At least there were no rocks here. I remembered my goal of the island, and tried to steer myself in that direction. Fortunately, the current seemed to go that way anyway, because I was having no luck trying to control my ride in the river. With the help of the current, I was soon deposited on the sandy little beach, sodden and coughing a little, but exhilarated.

 

The donkey walked out of the water beside me, and asked, “So, how did you like your little swim?”

 

“Strangely, I enjoyed it. It was a wild, exciting ride!” I said.

 

“Good. You’ll get plenty of chances to go again; there are branches of this particular river all over the place. It takes a little practice, but you do learn to steer through the currents and make it take you where you want to go.” He looked smug. “Yup, theRiver of
Creativity can be very powerful, and tons of fun, but it can also be frightening. Some people never get over their fear enough to even try it, let alone get used to guiding themselves through it. I thought you’d be the sort to enjoy it. Now, go look in those trees over there, and you’ll find the things we need for the night.”

 

I found a little tarp covered cache of camping things, along with some food for me and a nosebag of oats for my four-legged friend. The Enchanteur had remembered to include all those things I had bounced off and forgotten, like matches, a pocket knife and a canteen- I was very, very grateful.

 

There was a camping spot there already, so I made a fire in the fire ring and boiled some water for a cup of tea- the Enchanteur had been kind enough to leave me a tin mug and some of my favorite Earl Grey tea. I dried off by the fire while we ate our dinners. The donkey and I talked for a while, and I wrote in my journal about the events of the day.

 

Then I remembered the little metal mirror I carried in my pocket, and taking it out, had another look at it. The image had changed, just a little tiny bit. I couldn’t even pinpoint exactly what had changed, only that it had. I put it back in my pocket. Then I lay back on the bedroll and watched the stars that dazzle the clear Lemurian sky wheel overhead until I fell asleep with the sound of the River like a lullaby. 

 

Posted by She Wolf

Safety and Danger — Day 5

 

Damascus plods along the Owl Creek Road with Pigeon on his back. I walk along side of him, sometimes skipping a bit, sometimes singing a few lines of a ditty. Although Damascus warns me my gallivanting will use energy I will be wanting later, I cannot not help but show my excitement traveling on Owl Creek Road. On my way to where, I cannot imagine, but I know there is a mine ahead and I’m sure it will provide adventure. Well, I’ve never been one to shirk from a little sport, and I am in the most pleasant of companies, so I am happy. But after we walk hour after hour, with no end in sight, I begin to question my donkey’s wisdom..

 

 

 

“Damascus, where is this creek? After all, this road is Owl Creek Road. Surely there’s a creek. My canteen is empty and I’m getting quite thirsty. Hungry, too.” After an afternoon of walking, I am uncomfortable and a little whiny. The road covers me with a heavy layer of dust, and I also swallow my share. My mouth is so dry, I can hardly force my words out.“Be patient, Dear. I was warned you travelers are an impatient bunch, and that’s truly true. The creek is several miles yet. A sharp curve towards the mountains and then we will travel along the cooling water. Then you can drink until your body and spirit are quenched and I shall greedily join you. Do you not think beasts of burden thirst and become uncomfortable, yet I try not to complain? And have you noticed that Pigeon has been gone quite awhile? It would be wise for you to pay attention to your surroundings instead of dancing about. As for Pigeon, I daresay he has already partaken of his share of liquid refreshment.”

I become quiet. Damascus is right, of course. He is right most of the time, I discover. It is good that I try to pay more attention to his words. Words from Donkeys are surely of a magical nature.

“I am sorry, Damascus. I suppose my human-ness is showing.”

“Why, Dear, do not fret. Do you not yet know a Donkey’s patience is seldom tested? Now look up ahead and celebrate a bit if you must. Here is the curve in the road. See the stream; it is ahead.”

I must admit I half-run to the flowing waters. It races clear and cool, passing over small rocks and sandy flats. I pull off my shoes without further thought and wade into the sand. Scooping water with my hands, I assuage my thirst and splash my face and arms. Damascus joins me, stepping into a rocky portion of the creek, slurping water and spraying it upon my clothing.

“Stop. Stop. You are acting like a wild animal.” I laugh at his antics. I think he is laughing, too, but remember it is hard to read a donkey’s facial expressions. He is braying though, and that seems to indicate he is pleased. I spot Pigeon bathing in a shallow pool.

“Pigeon, where have you been? I have hardly seen you this entire day. You must stay with us for it is now dusk and our dinner can’t be far away.” I try not to let my worry show.

“Do you not know my job in this foreign land?” he cooed. “I am the look-out, watching the road for the least sign of danger. Do you think I am flying about on a lark?” Pigeon sounds indignant, as he may very well be. He is right. I do not notice what I should.

For the second time in as many hours, I find myself apologizing to one of my companions. I hang my head down; I want to cover my face and cry. “Sorry,” I say. Of course you are doing me a great service.”

“You better believe it, Dear. Now look ahead. Lights twinkling from a window. We have come to our place of rest. You rely on Damascus and me, we will care for you as if you were a helpless babe, crying in your cradle.”

Now chagrined at my lecture from Pigeon, I refuse to speak until we arrive at the house. Before I open the rose covered gate, the door to the cottage opens and an enormous man stands in its interior’s illumination. He steps forward, and I see an sparkling grin on his whiskered face. His frame fills the entire entrance.

“Welcome. Welcome. Damascus said we would have company tonight.” He waves a hand and belly-laughs.

I slip Damascus a surprised look. This donkey is worth more than I first figured. Here I thought I would be caring for him, and it is I who am being cared for. Just then Pigeon lands on my shoulder. I stroke his feathers and he ruffles himself. I am lucky to be in the company of my two friends.

I turn my attention to my host. “Why, thank you. I do admit we are tired and hungry. Damascus said we should stop at your home. I hope we are not causing trouble.”

“Trouble? Heavens no. We have dinner and a soft bed prepared for you and accommodations for Damascus and your bird friend. Rosa has a tub of steaming water for you to bathe in and dinner is nearly ready. I shall feed and bed down Damascus and I believe I have seed here for your bird. Go on in.”

“But I don’t even know who you are,” I say, hesitating at his invitation.

Damascus rolls his eyes and hummfs at me. Under his breathe he mumbles. “I never got a proper introduction from Dear until Pigeon stepped in, and now she questions my good friend! What manners do these travelers have?”

I hear Damascus and blush with embarassment. “I am Barbara, although my new friends call me Dear. I am pleased to stop at your home.”

“And I’m Tom Tubby. Pleased to meet you, Dear. Now up and in over the threshold. Rosa is most eager to have some woman-talk.”

Damascus whispers to Tom Tubby and Pigeon hovers over the two of them. I slow my walk so I can hear too. “Any trouble lately? You both doing okay?”

“No. It’s been quiet and I hope it stays that way while we have a guest. Our dogs are out and about. Jess and Jobie will set up a ruckus if they come anywhere near.” Pigeon looks over at me, hesitating on the stoop. “Big ears,” he says, so they break up their meeting and get to the evening chores.

I wash up and change into fresh clothes while Rosa takes my dusty shirt and pants and soaks them in a pan in the sink. I bring my sketchpad and pencils into the kitchen. “Can I help you do anything or would you mind if I sketch a bit and write a few words? I want to remember everything.” As if I would forget, I think to myself.

“Go right ahead, Dear. I gather we’ll hear your stories over supper, and a treat that will be. All these days passing, with only a man to talk to. Gets a frightful bit lonesome, though don’t take that as complaining. I love my Tom Tubby.”

She scrubs my clothing with lye in a pan of water. “I usually use the creek for washing, but it’s not always safest outside. The dark brings out all manner of creatures. You never mind though. Our home is cozy and safe. Now go ahead and do a bit of writing. Your clothes will be fresh in the morning.”

Quite awhile later, Tom Tubby squeezes himself through the door. “Let’s dish that stew up and pile that cornbread on the platter. Why, Rosa, it all smells so grand.” He rubbed his belly and turned to me with a big grin.

“My Rosa is the best cook along side the whole of Owl Creek,” he boasted. “And Rosa, Damascus says our traveler has had herself an exciting time since entering Lemuria. We’re sure to hear a good tale tonight.”

The couple and I exchange pleasantries over the hearty food, and then the real conversation begins. I tell them of the day’s happenings. They cluck and tsk over my story of the anchor and I feel embarrassed for a second. Then they say how fortunate I was to have the tiny anchor, and they think that everyone from the Old Place would be well to have one while in Lemuria. They do not know of le Enchanteur’s parting gifts.

After the hearty supper, Rosa scoots me off to bed. I lie awake in the comfort of the feather bed, piles of quilts covering me, and think over the day’s events. I am drifting into my dreams when I am yanked fully awake by a spooky howl. The howling is not in the distance; it is too nearby to feel comfortable. The dogs begin barking, and I hear shouts downstairs and a door slam.

“Rosa,” I call as I clatter down the steps. “What is happening?”

She is looking out the only window in the cottage which faces the barn, dressed in her nightgown with a quilt thrown over her shoulders. “Why not go up and climb back into bed, Dear? Tom Tubby can handle everything.” She turns away from me and peers closely out the glass. Again I hear the piercing howls. Again it is nearby. I find myself unable to leave Rosa; I look out the window, too.

“Ah-ooo! Ah-ooo!” I see dark shadows nearing the fence which surrounds the yard. It is only a picket fence and provides decoration, not safety. “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” Now Damascus is braying from inside the barn. I see Pigeon no where in sight, but surely he is safe from whatever travels on the ground. His wings carry him far from danger.

“Not to worry, Dear. Tom Tubby has a gun. He protects us when the wolves attack.” My heart does a double beat as I hear a gun fire. Then several more shots ring through the air. Tom Tubby is yelling, but I can’t make out the words. Minutes seem like hours, but finally the door latch turns and Tom Tubby lumbers through the door.

“They’re gone, Rosa and Dear. Gone for now. I’m afraid they were after Damascus, but we fought them together. Your donkey is safe enough.”

“You both fought them? How is that possible?”

“Why, Damascus does a sort of kick-boxing. Didn’t you know? All the companions of travelers are trained in the arts of protection. You couldn’t ask for a braver donkey. Afraid he’s got a bit of a wound on his leg, though.”

“Damascus is hurt?” I start for the door, but he holds me back.

“Now worry does one no good, so let’s not think the worst,” Tom Tubby gently reprimanded. “Rosa, I’d like to bring Damascus into the cottage to care for him. He’s a gentle animal and will cause you no trouble. He’ll be safer in here if the wolves attack again. He can’t protect himself as he is.”

I held my breath, waiting for her reply. Would Rosa let a donkey inside their home?

“Of course Damascus is welcome. Let me get the spare blankets so he can lie down comfortably. Dear, help me move the table and chairs against the wall so there’ll be room.”

Tom Tubby and I went out and half-carried Damascus into the warm room. Damascus could barely put weight on his foreleg. We gently placed him on the pallet. My heart sank when I saw his injuries, but perhaps when the wound was cleaned, it would look better. My friend, Damascus, was hurt and I no longer had my donkey to accompany me on my journey. I burst into tears. Not only was I heart-broken, I was also terribly afraid.

 

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